


And If God Called Me a Sinner (I Wish I'd Listened)

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, America, American - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BOTH BOYS ARE SEVENTEEN, Blasphemy, Boys Being Silly, Boys in school, Bullying, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Flustered Liam, Heavy flirting, Homophobia, Innuendo, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Perceptive Niall, Priests, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Schoolboys, Smut, They're the same age, Weird Harry, What the Hell, alternative universe, but avoid if needs must!!!!!, handjobs, internal shame, overwhelming Louis, past bullying, protective friends, sacristy, sexy things in the back of a church, sinning, sketchy priests, slight homophobia, some smut, sort of, they're both seventeen, tricksy Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8185021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: Schoolboys tease each other, don’t they? So Liam shouldn’t feel guilty about it, or the fact that he can’t stop his cheeks from flaring pink every time Louis so much as looks at him.Right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags. It's much milder than it sounds, but may be a bit triggering at times.  
> <3

Liam spent the first five months of his time at St. Anthony’s perpetually shame-faced and red. Embarrassment licks up his neck beneath his stiff collared shirt, and his tie always feels uncomfortably tight. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling to Liam, who is generally used to getting teased and bullied, but this attention, this here at St. Anthony’s, is new.

And Liam can’t tell his mom about it, not when being bullied is the reason he transferred here anyway, not when she’s sacrificing so much just to give him an education that doesn’t come with black eyes and broken ribs. At any rate, St. Anthony’s Prep is better than Buford Hills, even if Ant does make him wear a starchy uniform and attend weekly Mass. 

_Weekly._

But at least here he doesn’t have to worry about split lips and stitches.

Anyway, he’s no stranger to religion, not really, having been raised Catholic by his mom and slightly terrifying grandmother, but he is unused to it being taken so—seriously. He’s unused to getting so profoundly lectured about the terrors of hell, the temptations of the flesh, the horrors of overindulgence.

The speech about the evils of masturbation is one that particularly gets underneath Liam’s skin, sending him to the chapel with flushed cheeks and a heavy heart. He kneels in the second-to-last pew for forty-five minutes after that one. He hadn’t known that was a bad thing, hadn’t considered that a _sin_ because he didn’t used to know what the word meant, didn’t know it was wrong to make yourself feel good.

He’s learning so much, Liam is.

He’s also learning how to squirm, a trick he thought he knew so well before coming to St. Anthony’s, but the very first thing he learned was that Louis Tomlinson is quite possibly a demon. Not literally, but he’s—he’s something Liam can’t really name, and damn if he isn’t persistent.

Inevitably, Louis sits next to him during Mass even if Liam keeps to the back of the line and tries to fly below the radar—somehow Louis still snakes a spot right beside him so he can dig his sharp elbow into Liam’s meaty side, whispering filthy things beneath his breath as Liam’s face gets pinker and pinker. During the Our Father, when they all hold hands (because apparently religion is a lot gayer than Liam realized, a fact that _also_ makes him get squirmy), Louis squeezes his hand hard between pinching fingers—when he’s not rubbing soulful circles across the knuckle of Liam’s thumb.

“What are you doing?” Liam frequently hisses, trying to yank his hand away without causing a fuss.

 

“What, too public?” Louis whispered back once, left eyebrow raised as if preparing for a fight. “Too public? Well, I’m an altar boy, you know. I’ve got keys to the sacristy.”

Liam clenched his jaw, willing down the blush in his cheeks.

“That’s the back, yeah? Would you like to see the back, Liam? Would you like to explore it with me sometime?” he purred, innocence and light, eyes bright. He knocks his shoulder against Liam’s, just once. “You can trust me.”

 

Some weeks, it’s all Liam can do to take communion, feeling warm with guilt and shame, hot under his collar like everyone knows what he’s thinking.

::

“Peace be with you,” Louis intones, standing too close to Liam, staring at his lips without even one bit of pretense, unafraid of being caught.

“And—and with your spirit,” Liam manages to mumble in response, head swimming somewhere high above his body.

And after services, Louis flurries his hands at Liam’s stomach, manages to almost shove him into the baptismal font at the back of the chapel. “Come on, I mean it.”

“Mean what?”

“Come, let’s—sneak into the sacristy, after dismissal. This afternoon.” Louis’ voice even sounds—genuine, but Liam’s been fooled before. Liam’s been fooled a lot.

“So we can, what, steal a three-dollar bottle of twist-top wine?” Liam tries to shunt himself away, unsuccessfully.

“It’s unconsecrated!” Louis squawks, squeezing his fingers into Liam’s biceps.

“I—have lacrosse this afternoon.” Liam thinks he’s going to be bruised from this, and he wishes that bothered him even a little. “Gotta go.”

::

He does have lacrosse, so he doesn’t have to add _lying_ to his list of venial sins, but he apparently also has a fan club. It feels mocking, the attention he’s getting—but it’s no longer fists to the face, so he tells himself it’s better.

It’s a small fan club, Louis laughing loudly while he tries to wrestle some poor blond kid into a headlock, while a darker-skinned guy looks like he may be actively sleeping on the bleachers. A fourth, scrawny with curly hair (who reminds Liam of himself from not so long ago) is holding an old-school Polariod camera that Liam knows is no longer on the market because his older sister Ruth keeps lamenting that all of her saved-up film is going to go bad. 

Worse, the guy looks like he’s actually taking pictures, if the way his arms keep flailing around is any indication.

“Christ,” Liam mutters, looking around guiltily to see if anyone’s heard him. His lacrosse helmet keeps most of his face fairly protected, so he hopes he’s good on that front.

On all others, he’s basically screwed.

 

Metaphorically.

Literally, he’s got blue balls (also, a seemingly metaphorical phrase) because in addition to getting teased by Louis every Thursday morning, he’s got his conscience telling him not to jack off in the shower anymore because apparently it’s _immoral._

And he can’t very well touch himself in his bedroom because it shares a wall with Nicola’s, which is gross in so many ways, and he can’t do it after lacrosse in the locker room because someone might _see_ him, and also, it’s _immoral._

Some mornings he wakes up blearily only to realize he’s rutting into the mattress, flat on his stomach, cock pressed up against his abs. His body doesn’t even have the good sense to give him a wet dream, just a mid-morning erection that he can’t do anything about because apparently then God might hate him.

Liam’s a little fuzzy on the details.

::

One Wednesday afternoon while he’s in the library on his free period, trying to finish a terrible Spanish assignment, he can feel rather than see eyes on him. He looks around a surreptitiously (wondering just who has it out for him now) when the loudspeakers emit a raucous fire-alarm call. Liam mutters to himself and gathers a few papers until the librarian glares at him and gestures towards the library door.

The high schoolers scatter haphazardly on the front lawn, getting counted and rostered as they sort of line up by year. Liam tries to look inconspicuous while also actually getting acknowledged by Sister Mary Angelica so that she marks his name on her list.

It seems like the alarm is just a drill, since they can all file back into the school without incident. When Liam returns to the library to collect his things, he finds a yellowed leaflet for a twelve-year-old production of _Jesus Christ Superstar_ slipped into the pages of his Spanish text.

It seems like there’s a message implied, but he has no idea what the message is.

::

Liam doesn’t try to keep an ear out, but he can’t help but hearing things. St. Anthony’s is cliquish to say the least, plus it’s a small place, and, Liam’s found, boys are just as gossipy as girls. The girls at Buford Hills, anyway, since there aren’t any at St. Anthony’s. There are just boys, a smattering of nuns, Father Rosen, and Father Conway (who genuinely makes Liam uncomfortable, even outside of his regular talks about masturbation).

He hears that Louis is sort of, just, _like that,_ which he thinks is a euphemism for something, the thought of which makes his face flare up again. He can’t really differentiate between what people mean and what they say, sometimes, which he knows is half his problem.

His best friends are apparently called Niall, Zayn, and Harry, and for some reason everyone at St. Anthony’s just sort of—leaves them be. They sit at a decent table in the dining room, not that any of them are indecent, really, they’re all near windows and beneath strategic air vents, they’re all made of polished cherry wood. Their meals come on glass plates served with actual silverware, for God’s—for gosh sakes, and Liam’s everyday existence has become increasingly surreal.

Niall’s the shock-blond one, the one who seems to keep the others neatened up and tidy in their uniforms, the one who’s got a loud laugh, a bum knee, and an infatuation for singing _Wonderwall_ at the top of his lungs during free period. He willingly submits to Louis pinching his nipples through his blazer, but he gives better than he gets. He seems very fond of wearing oversized _Beats_ and pretending not to enjoy the stupid shit his friends do.

Zayn is a riot of beauty and protracted glances, of untrusting eyes that Liam thinks even his own friends can’t always read. He’s got a serious face, and he likes to whisper in Harry’s ear, only letting his face scrunch up in a grin when his friends are already smiling widely. He wears his tie a little sloppy but still within regulation, and he’s top of the English class, especially when it comes to Shakespeare. Liam thinks he gets shit from other people for being half-white and half-Pakistani, but he’s not entirely sure.

Harry has curls similar to the ones Liam would have if his hair got long again, but he’s also got dimples and the wide-eyed charm of the truly earnest. Liam actually envies him, although he’s eventually witness to Harry duct-taping his own hand to a desk. Harry always seems to have a book with him, not even a textbook, but a novel or some inscrutable poetry or the entire script of _Harry Potter and The Cursed Child._ Harry wears a lot of unregulated bracelets and, once, tried to get away with a clip-on cross earring. It didn’t work.

 

Liam can’t read Louis as well, though, but that might be because he keeps getting ritually assaulted by Louis’ _fingers_ and his warm-boy scent. Louis, who plays just as close to the vest as Zayn but who pretends much better with his bright-bright eyes and wide-split mouth. The thing is, he won’t stop fucking _whispering_ at Liam, won’t stop pestering him with pointless demands and sexual innuendos.

He’s probably trying to get a rise out of Liam, everyone always is, but Liam just isn’t _sure_ anymore.

He just needs guidance.

::

Guidance doesn’t come in the form of two hours in the chapel after school during the middle of February, and it doesn’t come from looking at the Catechism.

Because the Catechism keeps telling Liam that _lust is disordered desire or inordinate enjoyment of sexual pleasure. Sexual pleasure is morally disordered when sought for itself, isolated from its procreative and unitive purposes._ And it keeps telling him that _specifically_ because he keeps looking it up, keeps thumbing to 2351 because he checked it out of the library after the stupid fire drill, because that’s him in a nutshell, he thinks—stupid.

::

Liam’s with two classmates Dan and Henry in the junior hallway, working through their ridiculous chem assignment—sitting on the floor even in their uniforms. Liam wants to eat the Fritos he has in his bag but he can’t because they’re not in the lounge, they’re on the second floor. It might be about vermin, really he’s not sure what the rules mean anymore.

He gets increasingly lost about the rules when he spots Niall skateboarding down the hall, knocking wayward juniors about gently. Harry follows in his wake, laughing loudly, large feet stomping along the floor.

Harry tumbles down beside Liam. “Doing okay, LP? Our dear St. Ant treating you okay?” He falls sideways against Liam’s shoulder and shoots a leg out towards Dan or Henry. “You two doing him a solid?”

Dan snorts while Liam struggles for something to say.

“You’re acting like this is ‘Nam,” Henry mutters, flicking through his chem book. “We’re not trudging through a war zone, Styles, it’s just school.”

“It’s never just school, _Hank,_ it’s a lot of things.” Harry’s face is shuttered but bright-eyed. He looks dangerous as he stumbles up to standing.

“I’m fine, Harry,” Liam says neutrally, looking from him to Henry to Dan, only to look back at Harry again. While Liam watches, Harry’s shoulders loosen and his jaw lowers. He looks like maybe he can breathe a bit. “But like, thanks, man.”

Only then does Harry smile. Just a tiny bit.

::

Monday during Religion, Niall plops down beside Liam, who immediately tenses up. He realizes that it’s ridiculous to do so, as Niall’s fairly incapable of hurting him physically, and he certainly wouldn’t do so during Religion. But still.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Liam drawls out, frowning a bit.

“So what’s your deal? What’s your thing? Why are you here? Where do you live?”

“Aldine Street. Off Main.”

“Not an underground bunker?”

“…No. Not an underground bunker.”

“How have I never heard of you before?”

“Before today?”

Niall snorts. “Before September, before St. Anthony’s. What’s your damage, what’s your thing?”

Liam shrugs. “I—I haven’t got one.”

Niall snorts louder.

“I don’t!”

He considers Liam for a moment, curling his lips to one side and scrunching his brow down. Liam doesn’t like being considered, especially not by someone who’s got a shrewd look on his face. “Right, let’s not beat around the bush, then.” He narrows his eyes slightly.

“Are—are you trying to _divine_ something here?”

“What am I, a witch? Come on.” Niall snorts. He seems to do that a lot. Liam can consider things too. “So I’m guessing you’ve got siblings, yeah, older. Sisters? Sisters,” he confirms to himself slowly. “You seem like you’ve been duly mothered. Right, okay, sisters. And you switched here abruptly but your accent ‘ent far off, so it’s probably for like—what, bullying? Or your parents reckon you’re gay and want to rehab you. Maybe both? Are you gay?” Niall darts in close for a second, as if trying to _sniff_ at Liam.

“What? Why are we—this is religion class! Stop trying to smell me!”

“I’m not trying to smell you, kid, calm down.” Niall sounds amused, and he’s still considering Liam, but he’s at least backed out of Liam’s personal space. “You were bullied, then?”

Liam is saved from answering because class mercifully starts—the first time he’s really gotten mercy in awkward situations lately, he notes—but all he can think is _are you gay are you gay are you gay_ on a godforsaken loop.

::

Zayn tests him next, in his own quiet and thankfully less shaming way. He just follows Liam home from school, walking about five feet behind him and somehow shielding his cigarette from the frigid New England winter.

Finally, about four minutes away from his house, Liam turns. “What are you even doing? Don’t you have a car? Why are you following me home?”

Zayn stops in his tracks and shrugs. “Seemed sketchy to stalk you in a car.”

“Less sketchy to just shadow me and smoke?”

He has the good grace to at least look a bit uncomfortable. “I’m not going to jump you or anything.”

“Yeah, like I couldn’t take you.” Liam crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.

Zayn schools his face, dropping the smoldering cigarette. He stomps it out before speaking. “And are you planning to?”

“What? No!”

Zayn nods once and walks a bit closer. “You never know, you know?”

“I guess.” He blinks twice, looks up at Zayn. “Are we good here?”

“I guess.”

Liam waits until Zayn turns away and is out of sight before he traipses his way home.

::

Liam doubles the pace on his boxing routines, then, because it’s February and freezing and because he has to do _something_ with his pent-up energy. He long ago set up a heavy bag in the basement, long ago taught himself to dodge its slow return and to _hit-hit-hit_ in order it to keep it away from his body.

He rocks his bruised knuckles proudly without commenting on them, and he doesn’t even wince when Louis runs his thumb over his hand during the Lord’s Prayer on Thursday.

::

Liam ignores Louis for two weeks, in the ways he can ignore someone who flirts with him daily and who doesn’t know how to give up.

And he still has that litany of _are you gay are you gay_ in his head like rolling marbles, like any sort of repetition was going to solve anything for him. And he still has his daily half-hour-minimum repenting to do, self-inflicted because he’s too much of a coward and a fool to actually seek confession particularly from Fr. Conway (who Liam, in his darker moments, thinks might actually force atonement from his parishioners via sexual favors).

He shakes away from Louis’ grasping hands. He refuses to make contact with Louis’ searching eyes, refuses to give him more than cursory glances. He shunts away from Louis’ wild-way hips and dangerous shoulders, working through his feelings and his options.

He doesn’t see he has many options, really, besides submitting or retreating or blowing up like an aborted firecracker. Those are his options.

::

“You’re being weird.”

Liam jumps, not accustomed to people approaching him in the library. He drops his pen and upsets one of his stacks of textbooks. “What?”

Louis repeats himself. “You’re being weird.”

“You don’t know me weird.”

Louis laughs. “I know when you’re being weird.”

“How?”

“Different ways.” He shrugs.

Liam groans and drops his head onto his hands. “I’m so sick of the cryptic, like, bullshit!”

Louis gasps. “I didn’t know you could swear.”

“That’s because you don’t know anything about me!” Liam hisses, yanking his head up to glare at Louis. The effect is apparently lost on Louis.

“Sure I do. I know a little.”

“That’s bullshit, though!”

Louis sighs. “I know your character, or whatever. I can—read a room, see your aura, guess your deepest desires.” With that, he gives Liam a small smile.

 _are you are you are you_ “You’re—we’re in the library, stop talking so loudly.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, because it results in Louis ducking in low, tipping his face towards Liam’s ear. When he speaks, Liam can feel his breath, just a bit warm, against his face. “I said, my dear Liam, that I can guess your deepest desires.”

Liam rakes a hand through his short hair, feeling glad it’s not so curly-shaggy at the moment or it’d give off just how stressed he perpetually is. Louis watches his movements with interest. “What’s your angle?” he finally asks, biting into the inside of his cheek.

“No angle, love. Meet me near the sacristy after dismissal.” Louis’ grin is vibrant, wide and shiny. Liam feels stupid-drunk on him, and he’s never even been drunk. “Make it worth your very best while.”

::

For reasons Liam cannot reconcile to himself—will likely never be able to reconcile to himself—he finds himself seated on the bench out back of the church, near the rear entry, just by the sacristy. His brain is full of innuendo and his cock is half-hard, well before anyone’s even shown up.

He’s outside just in case Louis’ out to trick him, just in case things go sour—he’s learned to be self-protective, even when his libido tries to betray him.

Realistically, his libido is trying to betray him at every turn.

He tosses open a text book, setting in onto his thighs easily, looking down at it as though he’s reading. He isn’t, of course he isn’t, but it gives him the appearance of—maybe nonchalance? Nonchalance is what he’s working towards.

Nonchalance is elusive, if the bounding-in reaction Louis gives him is any indication. Louis almost hops in Liam’s lap, but settles neatly next to him, only one leg overlapping with Liam’s. “Come on, tour time. Got lots of robes and candles to show off!”

Liam snorts, even though he doesn’t want to. “What?”

“I don’t have a lot going for me, Li, I need to work with what I’ve got.” Louis’ grin is once again bright and hot. Liam forgets to breathe.

 

Liam is nervously biting at the cuticle of his thumbnail—a habit his mom _hates,_ and a habit he has grown to hate because it betrays his nerves—when Louis saunters away. Because all he does is saunter, really, and whisper and wink (he hasn’t actually winked, Liam thinks, but he’s the type).

(And—the type to _what?_ The type of _what_ exactly?) 

Liam flushes because that’s his M.O. lately. Whatever an M.O. is.

Maybe his next assignment should be to look up all the words that people use that he _sort_ of gets but that he doesn’t totally know how to employ properly. Next after whatever the _hell_ this is.

And why is he thinking this, of all things, when he’s following a beautiful _(what? Beautiful?)_ boy into a—well, into a church. He’s technically done that before. He technically follows beautiful boys into church every week, but they’re not usually boys who make him want to touch himself.

And that thought makes him flush more.

They quietly enter through the outer door, turning left and then right but Liam is too distracted to keep track. Louis eventually stops and turns around to look at Liam. “Can you keep a secret, Li?”

Liam blinks five times and swallows once. “Yes. Absolutely.” That much he knows, even if he’s not entirely proud of it.

“Well, all right.” Louis takes a small key out of the breast pocket of his button-up shirt, carefully hidden not just in his shirt pocket but underneath his blazer too. He unlocks the next door in their path and turns his head to look over his shoulder, face triumphant.

“Um, so. Give me the grand tour, I suppose?” Liam asks lamely, his cheeks still warm.

Louis licks his lower lip, just once. “I did promise to—to show you all around the back, didn’t I?”

Liam shrugs. “S’not like there’s too many dirty secrets back here, though, right? It’s not like you’ve got sticky fingers with the collection plate.”

Here, Louis smirks. “Sticky fingers purely reserved for other activities.” He holds up two fingers, his pointer and middle. “Altar boy’s honor.”

“I—” Liam falters for a moment. “I can’t tell when you’re being serious or like whether or not you’re totally f- totally fucking with me.”

“M’not!” Louis’ eyes go wide, his shoulders dropping.

“What? I don’t even—”

Somehow, Louis’ shoulders drop even further. “You’re cute. I like teasing you.”

“You—what?”

“You, um, go all pink, even your lips, and you just look so pretty when you’re flustered. I can’t, I can’t fucking help myself!” Louis heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Liam shuts down, his face slackening, his body going cold.

Louis—marvel that he is—seems to understand. “Not sorry for doing it, shit, sorry if it wasn’t, if you didn’t, like, sorry if you’re not—okay with it. I’m not sorry I—not sorry I like you.”

“You like me?”

“Jesus Christ, Liam! That’s what this has all been about, has it not?” Louis is quite literally pulling at his hair.

Liam, finally, smiles. “You like me.”

“That’s—is that what I said? If that’s what I said, then, yes, it’s true.” Now it’s Louis’ turn to flush a bit—but just the tiniest bit. He raises his shoulders, blustering up.

“Okay.” Liam nods.

“Okay?”

“That’s what I said,” he replies, biting his lip over a smile.

“Oh, smart one, are we? I see how it is.” Louis stalks closer, placing one hand on his hip, another on his shoulder. “Okay?”

Liam swallows over the lump in his throat. “Okay.” He watches Louis lean in, step up, have to get onto his tip-toes to align their faces. He watches Louis deliberate before slowly moving in to press his lips onto Liam’s.

The kiss is chaste, chaste as hell, even in Liam’s opinion. Liam snorts a little and drags Louis closer as he wraps both hands around Louis’ middle, circling him effectively. Then he opens up his own lips, hoping to encourage Louis such that he can. 

Louis sighs a little, and Liam can feel him smile as he lets his lips relax. Liam tightens his grip on Louis’ middle, daring one hand down to graze Louis’ ass.

He feels his pulse go molten, he feels white-hot with his own boldness and with Louis’ immediate responses—Louis melts his body into Liam’s, melts his mouth into Liam’s, opens up with a quiet moan.

As soon as both their mouths are open, Louis grows more courageous too, bends into Liam in a way he never has before, melding their bodies together. It leaves Liam breathless, literally and figuratively, punches him in the chest with the need to be _even closer._ He gasps, opening his mouth even wider, and Louis takes advantage immediately.

He presses in to Liam’s chest, moving his hands to wrap around Liam’s neck—and then their hips collide, and they’re both hard, and Liam loses his mind a little bit, and then he loses himself.

In the Fathers’ chambers, at his Church, at his school, with a boy, Liam is maybe going to get off. 

His mind goes elsewhere, goes to only sensation and to grounding himself in his—well, in his cock. He presses in as best he can, grappling at Louis’ ass with Louis’ arms tight around his neck.

Louis detaches from Liam’s lips. “Come on, come on,” he pleads, leading them to the wide leather couch, low-set and near the carpeted floor. He yanks at Liam’s collar with one hand and at his sleeve with another, moving them to lie down with Louis beneath Liam. “Come on, yeah?”

“Uh, um. Come on what?” Liam asks nervously.

Louis chuckles. “We’ll figure it out, babe.” He moves his legs wide, bringing Liam in. He brackets Liam’s thighs with his own, pressing their feet together. “We’ll do what feels good.”

“Th—this feels good,” Liam acknowledges, grinding his hips down into Louis, their pelvises knocking together crudely.

“And—you’re all right?”

“More than.”

“G-good. Me too.” Louis then moves one hand to the button of Liam’s uniform pants, and it seems like they both panic a little bit, their mouths going slack and their eyes going wide.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes. “Good.”

Louis finally opens Liam’s pants and moves the waistband of his boxers down, just a bit, before he frees the tip of Liam’s cock. He pets at it with one thumb, just at the head, and Liam feels intoxicated—which is something, because he’s never before been drunk, never before tried anything so heady or daring or surreal.

He groans a little, even though he doesn’t want to, and Louis keens in response. Louis tips forward to attach his lips to Liam’s neck, his hand still working gently at Liam’s dick. His touch is light and feather-soft, and his moans hum into the skin of Liam’s neck.

It’s electrifying and it’s everything.

Liam snakes his arm out towards Louis’ pants, grabbing at his belt and his curvy waist—Lord, is he ever cute, tiny such that Liam needs to grab at him harder, scrabbling wildly at the wooly fabric. He’s at a loss, but Louis’ hand is on his cock and Louis’ lips are on his neck, and he has to perform, now.

Right now.

So he does what generally feels good to him, once he opens up Louis’ restrictive pants and dips one hand into his boxer-briefs (they’re black, Liam notes)—he pumps a hand up and down, coating his fingers in pre-come as Louis’ body supplies it. 

The internal narrative isn’t entirely sexual or suggestive, but Liam’s also trying very hard not to come within fifty seconds.

“Fuck,” he whispers, casting his eyes upwards. This is a bad plan, because he immediately sees a crucifix with Jesus staring directly at him.

It does nothing to flag Liam’s erection.

Louis shoves his hand further into Liam’s boxers, opening his skin up to the cool air. Internally, Liam panics, but his body reacts against his will. He arcs up with a wild moan, his eyes still locked upon the crucifix. He closes them, but the image is burned against his eyelids for some reason, so all he can do is continue to touch Louis and to—feel.

He feels hot, and his pulse is pounding in his ears. He’s both up in his head and entirely in his body, all at once, his eyes squeezed shut so hard he’s seeing stars.

And then he sees stars for another reason, his vision going gray then black then molten while he’s coming all over Louis’ hipbones.

Louis gasps and follows as soon as Liam swipes his thumb over his cock-head, just twice, and then they’re both panting loudly into the open air.

Their hair is a mess, they’re both a mess, really, everything is messy and slightly broken, but Louis is grinning up at Liam and his lips are bright pink, and also everything’s a little bit okay.

“That was—um. That,” Louis begins, shoving his head backwards into the leather sofa. “Wow?”

Liam startles back, settling onto his haunches, hovering carefully over Louis’ thighs. “Oh!”

“Oh?”

“Oh, like—oh, me too? Um.” Liam nearly chokes on his own tongue, but then he clears his throat. “I’ve just—never. I’ve never.” He sits back more fully, tucking himself back into his boxers and pants. The air feels awkward, mostly because of the scent of their mingled bodies and because of the cooling come on their skin that Liam is just _not_ addressing whatsoever.

Louis nods, once, until his head knocks back against the sofa again. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“Oh.” _Oh?!_ “Oh, okay.”

Louis sighs, moving his hands down to tuck himself back into his pants too. He swipes absently at his abs. “Right, sure.”

“No, you’re not hearing me,” Liam insists, “the thing is only that—”

“Nah, I hear you just fine,” Louis counters, shoving Liam off his legs. For his part, he does plant a kiss on Liam’s forehead, but he’s business-formal otherwise. “It’s all okay. Really.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

::

Liam’s mind reels for three full days. For three whole days, he gets radio silence from Louis. More than radio silence, he gets absolutely nothing from Louis at all—no suggestive glances, no suggestive hand-holding at Mass, no _accidental_ shoulder bumps in the hallway. For three days, Liam just gets flat-out ignored.

His mind travels to scenario after scenario, in which he’s publically humiliated, in which he’s drawn and quartered, in which he’s burnt at the stake. He’s even pretty sure they don’t do things like that anymore, but his panicked brain doesn’t entirely believe it.

He came with a boy, after kissing a boy, and he liked it way, way too much.

 

Eventually, he’s able to realize that his own gay-panic clearly rivals Louis’ own, when he’s not seething and basically seeing nothing but red. He’s also working to put things in perspective and to manage his anxiety issues, which is easier said than done.

Also eventually, Louis’ friends circle around Liam. Niall’s first, and Liam senses that it’s because Niall hates conflict the most.

“A’right, mate?” Niall asks, plopping down next to Liam during Religion class. He’s somehow eating chips even though they’re not allowed food above the first floor of school, and his uniform is the neatest and tidiest of any student Liam’s seen yet. Niall is an enigma.

Except Niall doesn’t seem like an enigma at first glance, which is interesting, and also something that Liam can’t totally process yet, because Niall is grappling at his elbow and pulling him into a conspiratorial huddle.

“What’s—you and Lou, like. Are you okay?”

Liam goes cold. “Why? Did he say something? What should I do? What did I do?” He’s solidly panicking, much to his own dismay. “What’s going on?”

Niall seems to pick up on it, as he puts a hand onto Liam’s shoulder. “Nothing. I know nothing, honest. Promise.” He has the grace to look forlorn about this fact.

Only then does Liam flush. “But then how do you—”

“How do I what?”

“How do you know?” _are you are you are you_

“Bit transparent, to be honest. And he won’t talk about it. So I was hoping on you.”

“I’m transparent?”

Niall chuckles. “Nah. Just awkward.”

The bell rings. Liam’s skin flares.

“We’re not talking about this now.”

::

Zayn rounds on him next.

Liam sighs, shutting his locker after stowing his books inside. “Lay it on me.”

Zayn appears to be collecting himself, squaring his shoulders. He leans on a locker. “Dude, I don’t want to do jack to you except make sure you’re not a homophobe.”

This garners a laugh. “You really think that I’m really a homophobe? At this point? All said and done?”

Zayn shrugs slightly. “Doing my due diligence.”

Here is where Liam goes cold. “Maybe you just talk to Louis, okay? Get him to just, I dunno, face me like a man.”

::

Harry finds Liam last and has the grace to be sheepish. “Not—I’m not here with any real agenda,” he promises,

Liam sets his jaw and shakes his head. “No. He sent you. Motive, agenda. Spit it out.”

Harry shakes his head rapidly, bouncy curls spinning around his face. “He didn’t send me, promise. I just wanted to help.” He seems to sense Liam’s incredulity, because he adds, “Really!”

Liam exhales. “Say I believe that. So, like. What?”

Harry scrubs a hand—long fingers, which Liam would like under any other circumstance—through his hair. “How can we all just make things right?”

Liam rolls his eyes.

::

Louis does find him, and he looks appropriately abashed when he does so. He practically ambushes Liam right as he’s leaving English class, meaning he’s probably ditched the last few minutes of his own class. Which is flattering.

Louis is decidedly _not_ all smiles today. In fact, Liam thinks that Louis hasn’t properly smiled in days. That realization is what prompts Liam to speak first. “Hi?” He heaves his books up higher, clutching them to his chest protectively.

“Hi. Yes, hi yourself. Can we talk?”

Liam’s heart pangs, but he plays it off with a shrug. “We’re talking now.”

Louis snorts. “That was too easy, bro. We can do better.” He gestures with one hand, and Liam follows him down the hall a bit until they’re at the stairwell, which is a bit more private.

“All right. In that case, maybe I should ask if you lost the ability to talk for—how many days was it, exactly?”

He visibly swallows, his Adams apple bobbing. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

Liam shrugs. “I’m sorry too, I guess—I guess. I could have approached you,” he says slowly.

“No, yeah, but it’s—that’s not—no. I mean, yes. Okay, so I could already sort of tell you weren’t totally comfortable with this stuff so I tried to, like, give other opinions and options that weren’t so damnation-focused, right, but I also feel like I pressured you and that’s not fair, that’s not fair of me to do. And I just felt so bad and guilty and—”

“Guilty? You feel guilty about what we did?” Liam’s voice goes high-pitched, which is humiliating all on its own, to add to the fact that Louis feels _guilty._

“Not guilty because of like—what you think, I think, but because I thought maybe I was being unfair to you—”

“Unfair like ignoring me for three days, after, like, constantly bombarding me with all your, what, attention and charm? And—and everything?” He tries to imbue the word _everything_ with as much significance as it felt at the time. The words echo in the stairwell, and Liam’s cheeks grow warm.

“That’s why I’m sorry!”

Liam scrubs a hand over his face.

“And that I, like, pressured you. Right?” Louis’ voice has gone similarly high, achieving an almost squeaky quality.

“I mean. No?”

He exhales slowly. “Wait. No? No. Okay. I, uh. I got worried. I was worried.”

Liam scrunches down his brows. “Worried about me?”

“Well. Yes?” Louis shrugs one shoulder. “And when I get worried, I clear out.”

At that, Liam blinks repeatedly. “You spent months pursuing me, got some action, and then sprang a cold fucking shoulder? Without—” He swallows. “Without thinking about what that might say?”

Louis frowns. “Wait, what? What does it say?”

“That—that you feel fucking guilty!”

Louis huffs, scrubbing one hand through his hair. “No! I was trying from the start to, like, show that it’s not all always about punishment and damnation, that there’s alternatives to the typical narrative and shit, and I’m—”

“Wait, that shit was you? God, Lou, why not just come talk to me? I don’t understand cryptic shit, you know that!”

“That’s—isn’t that not how this is done?”

“This? This _what?”_

“Wooing!”

Liam clenches his jaw over a snort. He just barely contains it. “Wooing.”

“Um.” Louis twitches slightly. “Flirting, maybe? That might be a better explanation.”

“Flirting.”

“Are—are you just going to repeat everything I say? Because that could get weird.”

“N-no.” Liam heaves a sigh, straightening his back. “No, I’m not.” He collects himself for a moment. “Are you just going to make excuses for yourself for ages? Is this it, really? Because if so, bro, I’m done.”

“No!”

Liam nods, stiffening his back. He’s taking charge of the situation, all right, he’s not sitting still and letting things happen _to_ him, he’s being reactionary, proactive. Those are the right words, he thinks. He’s not letting this situation get away from him.

He says that to himself, and he stiffens his back further, and then he sighs. The fight goes out of him, and his face slackens. “Look, I’ve—I’ve had a lot of shit go down on me, without my say-so, and it’s just blown. I’m here,” he says, pointing a finger towards the ceiling as though to demonstrate, “because of bullshit that’s happened at other schools. Okay? And that’s not—that’s not even touching on the—on the gay thing.” Here, Liam swallows hard. “So forgive me if I’m, if I question motives.”

“Forgiveness I can do. Forgiveness is what we’re all about here.” Louis gives him a small, mischievous smile. “Well, forgiveness and, occasionally, sodomy.”

Liam nearly chokes, but his nerves are soothed. He thinks his face is a bit pink, maybe. “Jeeze, Lou, seriously?”

Louis smiles wider. “Only occasionally! And with only consenting, enthusiastic, willing participants. Obviously.” He seems to suppress a shudder, and Liam immediately thinks of Father Conway with matching revulsion.

“That’s—yes. Yes. Thank you.” Liam flushes around his collar.

“Such good manners.” Louis floats up one hand to ghost around the flesh of Liam’s cheek. He doesn’t press down.

“I aim to please,” Liam murmurs, tipping his face into Louis’ palm.

::

“What are your thoughts on sin, then?” Zayn drawls at lunch the following week, looking bored and also as though he’s wearing eye-liner. They’re all seated together at a long table, taking up only half of it. Zayn has an annotated copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ hanging loosely from one hand, but he’s not really attending to it.

“Sin?” Liam responds, scrunching up his face. He feels tested, feels tried and found wanting, somehow. He’s sick of the questions, to be honest. He’s sick of the trials.

“We all sin, Z, come on,” Niall pitches in, biting into an apple while simultaneously digging his hand into a bag of barbeque chips. Niall, Liam has found, is on his side more often than not, but Niall has a great many teams. Niall is a team player to everyone.

“Sure do!” Harry agrees readily, peeling the skin off an orange with undivided concentration. “Everyone sins.”

“Z,” Louis adds with a heavy sigh, raising a brow towards Harry and also to his orange. “Come on.”

“Nah, bro, really. Let’s hear it.” Zayn shrugs easily, just like he does everything easily and with only a slight affectation. So. Maybe not so easily.

“Everybody sins,” Liam says. “Obviously.”

“You too?”

“Sure.” Liam shrugs. “Can’t be avoided, right?”

Zayn hums.

“Out with it, now,” Louis demands while rolling his eyes.

“Well, it’s just—you’re fine with this? With you two being a sin?”

 _“Excuse me?”_ Liam bellows as Louis shoots up from his chair.

“Take that the fuck back!” Louis yells—and before anyone else can react, the cafeteria monitor is on him, giving him a detention in murmured tones. He leaves the room without another word, ushered out with one hand on each of his shoulders.

Zayn gives Liam a small, sad look before leaving the room as well.

::

Liam waits outside the dean’s office for a half-hour, sitting cross-legged on the floor. 

There aren’t any rules that say he can’t sit on the floor, not yet.

Liam thinks that maybe Zayn was still testing him or both of them, pushing for them to commit to something. But Liam’s still mad that Zayn upset Louis, is still mad that it all ended in a consequence. He’s mad that he’s sitting on the floor outside the dean’s office, but he’s willing.

So he waits, and eventually Louis comes out stone-faced.

Liam clambers up, catches ahold of Louis’ left elbow. “You okay?”

“Been better.” He shrugs out of Liam’s hold, starting to walk down the hall. “M’sinning and shit, so.”

“Sinning?” Liam stutter-steps to follow him, picking up the pace.

“With the swearing and the attending to my anger and with the messing about in classes.” Louis pauses. “And the kissing boys, although he didn’t mention that one specifically.”

“No.” Liam’s chest goes cold. “Not true, not that last one.” He inhales sharply. “No way.”

Louis turns to face him, face ashen. “But do you mean it?”

“Do I mean what?”

He shrugs again. “The sinning.”

Liam blinks. “I mean. I’m sinning plenty, I guess,” he says, slowly moving a hand out to press onto Louis’ shoulder. “But this isn’t that. We’re not that.”

“Well then what the fuck is this?” Louis yells, even with Liam’s hand on him, even in school, even being so close to the dean’s office.

Liam pulls Louis close, moves his other hand to yank his shoulders in. He plants a kiss on Louis’ temple. “This is something much better than that,” he promises against the warm skin above Louis’ eyebrow, meaning it more than anything. “This is every good thing.”

It sounds like a blessing, like a godddamn benediction, and he thinks they both nearly believe themselves worthy of it all.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be sexy and filthy, and somehow it got both fluffy and angsty instead? Also hey folks, I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through twelfth grade, and my high school was an all-girls college-prep setup, attached to a convent. The nuns raised peacocks. HAH.
> 
> Sorry this was so fucking stupid hahahaha oh well, manage your disappointment or don’t. Either way, thanks for reading! Comment with criticism, comments, love, hatred, facts about Catholicism, your own personal experiences, thoughts about boys being weird, OT5 feels, and more!
> 
> Zayn loves lilo btw I promise
> 
> My tumblr: musiclily


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